Necessary
by blackwolfmajik
Summary: Wynne gets a bit more than she bargined for when offering a copper for the Warden's thoughts.


**AN:** This one is a bit angsty and kind of beats up on poor Wynne (sorry).  
Apologies if my tense slips, it's tough to stay in "present" when you're not used to it.

*insert generic disclaimer that laments my lack of owning Bioware or any of its fabulous friends*

----oOo----

**Necessary**

Bottles clink together as the elder mage fills them with glittering blue fluid, humming a tune under her breath.

The soft call of her name causes Wynne to glance up from her work, curious at the thoughtful frown on the young warden's face.

"What's on your mind, dear?"

The girl is quiet for a few moments, firelight and shadows chasing across her fine elven features.

"I was just thinking about the Circle."

Hands webbed with spidery veins pause in their ceaseless task. "What happened there…I know will stay with us a long time. To lose so many that we knew…"

"The Circle will be rebuilt. The Blight will not last forever; we can go back once our duty is finished."

"Finished?" Wynne's chuckle is without humor. "Duty is not a robe you can put on and off. You're a Grey Warden now; I do not think the Circle is where your future lies."

The thoughtful frown is back and Wynne notices that the girl is not staring aimlessly, but at the Apostate Morrigan, tucked at the far corner of their camp.

"The Circle is not in her future either, I suspect."

The mumbled answer is too low for Wynne to hear. "What was that?"

The elf bites her lip, her frown deepening.

"I was just wondering…what if the Circle has it wrong."

Wynne's hands stop, an empty flask forgotten and cold against her palm. "Pardon?"

The young Warden looks uncomfortable. "What if…the Circle has hurt us…more than it has helped?"

Confusion ripples and floods through the senior enchanter's mind, making her thoughts scatter. "What?" she asks flustered.

"Look at Morrigan," the elf forges ahead. "She and her mother lived alone in the wilds for years. She didn't turn into an abomination and start rampaging across Ferelden. What if…what if everything we've been taught is wrong? What if we don't _need_ the Templars?"

Wynne's face is frozen, unhelpful.

"Morrigan is…hostile and unsocialized, yes - but she's strong willed. She's had nobody to rely on except herself: no Templars to watch her every move, no Chantry telling her that she is evil." The warden's frown twists into something fervent as she seizes on the idea. "What if that's the key: the strength of will, the belief in oneself?"

Frustrated by Wynne's lack of response, the elf tries harder. "The mages of the Circle have the Templars to protect them from themselves and the world, right? What if the belief that they are helpless against the 'sin' of their own magic has weakened them enough to allow demons a foothol--?"

"_Stop._" Wynne is breathless, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. "You know better than to speak of such foolish things."

"Foolish?" The warden's sharp brows draw tight with anger. "The Circle had fallen and was about to be _Annulled_. The Templars cowered in the entry hall behind a locked door, abandoning everyone inside for dead, _including you_. Four of us took back the tower and destroyed the abomination that Uldred had become. _Four_ of us did what an entire contingent of Chantry warriors failed to do." Her voice had risen, drawing the attention of the others around the campfire. "How is it that the Templars, for all their talk, are supposed to protect Ferelden from danger if they cannot even prevent such a massacre in their own stronghold?"

The older mage trembles before the unleashed conviction of the warden. "They lost many of their own, they were not prepared--"

Incredulity mars the elf's pretty features. "Prepared? How much more prepared should they have been? There was not a day that went by that I was not reminded of how close to destruction we all were at the Tower. How, being born a mage, I was a heartbeat from becoming the worst evil the world had seen. How is it that when the disaster finally struck, they were _not prepared_?"

"Were you prepared for Ostagar?"

The warden's mouth snaps shut with a click.

"No one was prepared for Ostagar." They all look at Alistair, the regret in his voice etched clearly on his handsome face.

For a moment they are all silent, the horrors of the terrible battle playing through their minds.

When the warden speaks again she is calm, the anger drained away like blood into sand. "Tell me, Wynne. Would the Templars look at you and see a kindly senior enchanter, spared from death by the grace of a benevolent Spirit? Or do you think it far more likely they would slaughter you for being an abomination, possessed by a creature from the Fade?"

Their eyes lock, wills battering at each other like invisible moths.

"It is something to think on."


End file.
